


Fight

by jesuisherve



Category: The Expendables (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Fights, M/M, Male Slash, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisherve/pseuds/jesuisherve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barney has a lot to drink while dealing with some unresolved feelings of loss and ends up lashing out at Gunnar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight

**Author's Note:**

> this will probably be reworked soon. I'm just sick of fiddling with it, so i'm posting it for now.

Death was never easy to get used to. Barney could never manage to numb himself to feeling loss. It hurt every time he lost a teammate. Mourning was not something he was good at. It was always easier to hide the pain. Sure, the Expendables had their own little rituals to mark the passing of a comrade. If there was a body and they had time, they’d bury it. If they could exact revenge; they would do that too. It gave them some sort of closure. _“Track ‘em, find ‘em, kill ‘em.”_ Much to his regret, Barney had said things similar to that more than once.

All of the negative feelings he should have dealt with and the deaths he should have mourned properly seemed to be haunting Barney that night. He had barricaded himself in his room, smoking cigar after cigar. He’d be annoyed at himself later for smoking so many but for now it was as good as therapy. His phone buzzed twice, telling him he had received a text. He considered ignoring it but found himself picking it up and checking his messages.

_Gunnar J: You never called back (10:13 pm)_

Barney tossed the phone to the side and kneaded his forehead with the heel of his palm. Gunnar knew something was wrong. He didn’t want to see the big Swede right then. What he wanted was some space to sort things out. Cigar clamped in his mouth, he grabbed the phone again and sent a quick message.

_Sorry. Busy. See you tomorrow. (10:15 pm)_

What Barney decided he needed was a beer. He padded downstairs to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two loose cans of beer and an untouched six-pack. He took one of the cans out. That would be a good start. There was also half a bottle of Bulleit Whiskey in the liquor cabinet. That’d get him through if the beer wasn’t enough.

\--

Gunnar’s phone rang, jolting him awake. He fumbled in the dark for it, cursing as he bumped his hand against things. He flicked on the lamp beside his bed and found the phone had clattered to the floor. He picked it up and answered the call.

“H’llo?”

“Gunnar?” It was Barney. His voice sounded strange.

The Swede squeezed his eyes shut. The lamp was bright. “Barney? W’us wrong?”

“Can... can you come get me?”

Background noise was flooding through the phone’s speaker. There was pounding music and other voices. It was hard to hear what Barney was saying. “Get you? Where are you?”

“That bar downtown, the one with the burgers.” Barney was yelling now. The background noise intensified for a few seconds and then died down. “I’m outside,” he explained. “Come get me.”

Gunnar looked at the clock. 3:03 am. “Ten minutes,” he grumbled. “Stay put. Don’t move.”

\--

Gunnar pulled up outside of the bar and switched on the hazard lights of his truck. He stepped out for a moment and craned his neck, searching. People were milling about on the side walk, some being picked up by taxis, others being ushered by their designated drivers. Where was Barney? Someone honked at Gunnar and he flipped them off. He could care less if some asshole was mad about where he had parked. He spotted Barney standing near the bar’s entrance. He was smoking a cigarette and talking with the bouncer. Gunnar strode quickly towards them. “Barney,” he called.

The dark-haired man turned and caught sight of him. His face lit up with a grin. Gunnar watched him take a step and lurch. He was drunk; really, really drunk. The Swede gave the bouncer a wave to show he was there for Barney and looped an arm around his shoulders.

“Gunnar,” Barney said. His pronunciation was sloppy. He tilted his head and pressed his face against the taller man’s neck. “Where’s the truck?”

“Here,” Gunnar grunted. He guided Barney to the passenger side and made sure he got in. Someone honked their horn again and Gunnar rounded on them. It was a teenage boy with a carload of friends. The kid leaned out of his window to say something but when Gunnar started stalking towards them while swearing loudly in Swedish, the kid thought better of it and pulled around the parked truck to speed away. Gunnar got into the truck and turned off the hazards. He made sure Barney was okay, popped it into drive and started for Barney’s house.

When they got to his place, Barney searched for his keys with clumsy fingers. Once found, he fed the correct one into the lock on the front door and let them both in. He tripped over the threshold but got inside without actually falling. Barney did not get drunk that often. When did he honestly have time to set aside for the purpose of getting shitfaced? It was rare. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink, he did often enough, a couple of beers with friends or on the plane to and from missions, but he almost never got stumbling over, word-slurring drunk.

“What’s up with this?” Gunnar asked, not really expecting an answer. The chance that Barney was paying attention was very slim.

To his surprise, Barney did answer. “Bad night.” The shorter man kicked his boots off and shrugged out of his jacket. It landed on the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up. It could wait until later.

“You shouldn’t cope this way,” Gunnar said carefully.

Barney gave him an incredulous glance. “Excuse me?”

“This isn’t a good way to cope with bad stuff,” Gunnar said more firmly. “Trust me. If you’re having a bad time—”

“What the fuck does that even mean, coming from you?” Barney snapped.

The big Swede winced. “I know it sounds stupid when I say it but I’m serious. Don’t do what I used to do.”

Barney laughed humourlessly. “So I can’t even have one night where I get drunk because you have a ‘substance abuse problem’?” He crooked his fingers in sarcastic air-quotations.

“That’s not what I mean,” Gunnar said, frustration creeping into his tone. “I’m already fucked up; I would get even more fucked up when I couldn’t handle things. I don’t want it to happen to you, okay?”

Barney spun to face him, lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl."Don't even start," he shouted. "The difference between me getting fucked up and you getting fucked up is I'm not actually a fuck up!"

A punch to the face would have felt better than what had come out of Barney’s mouth. Gunnar gaped at him, brow furrowed and fists clenched. “What?”

“Forget it,” all of the fight seemed to go out of Barney. He turned away. “I’m gonna sleep.”

Gunnar ran a hand through his hair, bewildered and hurt. “I’m going home,” he muttered. He refused to look at Barney as he left and slammed the front door behind him. He made it to his truck before the first crack in his emotional armour appeared. Everyone knew that Gunnar was emotional, but they seemed to have the impression that his two settings where angry and chill, there was nothing else. Barney knew better than that. He had seen full ranges of Gunnar’s emotions over the years. As the Swede slid into the driver’s seat the hold on his emotions slipped more. The truck door closed and he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Gunnar had begun to make a low keening noise without realizing it. He was trying to tell himself that Barney was simply too drunk, that he hadn’t meant the things he had said. His shoulders were shaking. He clutched the steering wheel and dimly noticed that his hands, in fact his whole body, were shaking too.

\--

Barney woke up and had a moment of confusion when Gunnar was not in bed beside him. He had rolled over to touch the other man but his hand found empty air instead. His eyes flew open and he looked around the room. Was he getting dressed, or in the bathroom? Then memories from the night before began to flood him. “Fuck,” he groaned, covering his face with the crook of his elbow. He didn’t remember everything but he remembered enough to know that he had done something horrible. Then a flash of nausea overtook him. He made it to the bathroom in time.

He finally quit vomiting when it felt like there was nothing left in his stomach. He dry heaved for a few minutes and was left panting and faint. He clambered slowly to his feet and flushed the toilet. This was why he didn’t get shitfaced that often. He ran the bathroom sink and washed his face. The cool water felt wonderful against his swollen eyes. Food would be great as well. Making it would not be.

Once he had eaten and drunk a lot of water, Barney felt capable to face what he had done to Gunnar. He remembered fighting with him a little and he vaguely remembered telling him that he was a fuck up. Remembering those made Barney cringe with self-directed anger. Of all the things he could have said, he had targeted exactly where Gunnar’s biggest insecurities were: his personal worth. If Gunnar was a fuck up it meant that he was worth nothing. A fuck up couldn’t contribute to the Expendables; a fuck up couldn’t have relationships, a fuck up couldn’t accomplish anything. Gunnar knew he had _fucked up_ in the past, but once he had been set back on the right track he busted his ass to stay there. He had quit the drugs with a few relapses but he got there. He had gotten a psych evaluation at Barney’s request which had turned up a diagnosis for a personality disorder. Barney had hit him with a low blow. Calling him a fuck up summarized all of Gunnar’s fears about his failures.

Barney called Gunnar, hoping the big man wouldn’t ignore his phone.

When he answered, Barney smiled in relief. “Gunnar, hey.”

There was silence on the other end. It stretched on, making panic build in Barney’s chest. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. Everything I did and said was out of line. I’m really sorry. I was in a bad place, I was angry but not at you. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

“Sure,” Gunnar said flatly. “Talk to you later.” He hung up.

“Goddamnit.”

\--

It took all of his willpower not to drive to Gunnar's apartment. He didn't want to rush over to Gunnar's like a clingy schoolboy if the other man needed space. Barney went over to Tool's first. When he needed advice, Tool was the man to see.  
  
Tool didn't have to ask what had happened when he saw Barney. His eyes were red, his cheeks pale. His short cropped hair was messy for once. He was carrying a bottle of water. "Brother, that is one hell of a hang over," Tool said smoothly as his friend walked into the tattoo parlour.  
  
"Yeah," Barney said roughly. "Gunnar and I had a fight."  
  
Tool raised an eyebrow. "Last night?"  
  
Barney sat in one of the chairs Tool had placed around and dropped his head into his hands. "I was really drunk last night. Said some things I shouldn't have. Gunnar wasn't there when I woke up and I dunno if he wants to see me."  
  
"Well," Tool clapped his hands together. "Not seeing you, is it what he wants or what he needs?"  
  
"Both, maybe. I dunno." Barney said miserably. He was good at taking care of Gunnar when the problem wasn't him. This time it was his fault, no one else's. Tool was still talking but the words simply washed over Barney and rolled off of him. He was lost in thought, deciding what to do next. Tool knew that his friend wasn't listening but it didn't bother him. Barney sought him out for peace of mind and to bounce ideas off him. If Barney took away something from his words or only needed the company, that was what Tool would give him.  
  
When Tool had finished talking, Barney nodded like he had heard everything. "I'm going over there," he said. "If he's going to relapse or do something stupid, maybe I can stop it."  
  
"Do you want me to come?" asked Tool.  
  
"No, I'd better go alone."  
  - -  
  Barney had a key to Gunnar's apartment but he still knocked. He waited to see if Gunnar would let him in on his own volition. Once five minutes with no answer had passed, Barney let himself in. Maybe Gunnar wasn't even home. He would check and if the Swede was gone, he'd send him a text saying where he was and wait for him to come back.  
  
Gunnar was home. Barney found him in the bedroom. The Swede was curled up under the covers, his back to the door. "Hey," Barney said quietly. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."  
  
No reply.  
  
"If you want me to leave, tell me but at least hear me out first," Barney started talking rapidly. If Gunnar wanted to physically remove him from the building he would be more than able. "You were right. I shouldn't have tried coping like that. I got mad but I didn't mean anything I said. You're not a fuck up, okay?"  
  
Gunnar shifted under the blankets. Barney took it as a cue to continue. "I can't un-say what I said but I did _not_ mean it. It was wrong of me to freak out. I'm sorry."  
  
Still no reply. Barney knelt on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Gunnar's shoulder. The blond shied away from his touch. Barney held on and pulled to make him roll to the side. Gunnar looked at him blearily. He was in worse shape than Barney was. He was pale and sweaty. His hair was stuck to his forehead and his eyes were bloodshot.   
  
"You didn't...?" Barney asked.  
  
"No," Gunnar mumbled. "I wanted to but I didn't." He hadn't slept. Instead he had been up all night fighting cravings. He wanted to shoot up, he wanted a drink. He wanted to hurt himself, too. In a way it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he relapsed it would be further proof of Barney's words and proof to the voice that was always in the back of his head telling him he was a failure.  
  
Barney helped him into a sitting position. Gunnar had stripped down to his boxers before crawling into bed. Barney ran his fingers down Gunnar's shoulders and over his arms before taking both of his hands in his. He turned the Swede's hands, forcing him to show the insides of his forearms. There were no fresh track marks in the bends of his elbows. Only scars remained. Gunnar made a noise, unhappy that his word was not trustworthy enough, and pulled his hands away. He hated when Barney looked at his arms. Besides the shameful needle marks there were old scars from way before the drug use, ones that he had put there himself during dark swings in his mood with whatever sharp object he had on hand at the time. He never discussed the scars with anyone. Barney had seen them before but both of them had plenty of strange scars that needed no explanation. 'Received in battle' was usually the reason for injury.  
  
Suddenly, Barney understood the significance of the old scars that trailed over the skin of Gunnar's forearms and thighs. Seeing the moment of vulnerability in his lover when he took his arms back spelled it out perfectly.  He berated himself for never putting it together before. He had never paid much attention to Gunnar's scars. There was no need; they were both pretty beat up. How could he have been so stupid?  
  
Most were faded, almost gone. Only a few were vivid against Gunnar's skin. They crossed the width of his forearms, never close to the wrist and all of them coming up short where he used to inject. They were usually covered with sleeves or simply unnoticed. The ones on his thighs were worse, deeper and stark white. Barney couldn't count the times he had traced over those scars with his mouth, the times he had left hot kisses on them, or the times he had held Gunnar's thighs apart with his hands. He had touched those scars a thousand times and had never thought to ask how they got there or why.  
  
"Fuck," he moaned. "Fuck, I'm so stupid."  
  
Gunnar looked at him helplessly. He had never talked about the scars because they were more trophies won by failure. He had been weak. It was easier to spell his pain out silently with a blade than face it. When he had discovered drugs, the cutting stopped but the self destructive behaviour never did. He used to tell himself the drugs were better, they were recreational, and hadn't touched his skin with a knife since. Last night had almost been his first return to cutting in eighteen years, but he held out. He made it through the night without relapse and Barney had come for him.  
  
Barney wrapped his arms around Gunnar and buried his face in the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "Fuck, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."  
  
The dark-haired man was warm. Gunnar clutched him close, one hand grabbing a handful of Barney's black hair and the other pressing against his hip. The Swede's grip was painful but Barney accepted it without complaint. If he could be Gunnar's anchor he would bear any discomfort with pleasure. He was taken aback when his lover began to shake. Gunnar tightened his hold, as if Barney was going to disappear. Barney nuzzled his face against Gunnar's cheek. "S'okay," he murmured, lips brushing his clammy skin, "s'okay, I'm not leaving. I'm sorry. I fucked up. You're okay."  
  
"Thank you," Gunnar choked. "Th-"  
  
"Don't," Barney growled, "Never thank me for this. It isn't a privilege, it's a right. You deserve this. You deserve better. I should thank you for taking me back."  
  
Gunnar laughed weakly. "You've taken me back after worse."  
  
Barney protested silently. He knew what Gunnar was referring to; his betrayal during the Vilena mission. He believed that the incredibly personal and pointed way he had hurt Gunnar was on a different level. It had been a mix of personal and professional business. Their fight last night had only been between them, and it was Barney's fault. But, arguing with Gunnar right then would do more harm than good. It was a conversation they could have later.

\--

_Sweat rolled down the Swede’s face. He was burning up and Barney’s touch was the source of the fire. He arched his body to press more fully against Barney’s. He wanted NEEDED to be as close as possible. Barney was sitting across his hips, grinding on him slowly. It was brutally enticing. Gunnar’s cock was hard as a rock and he knew his lover could feel it. “Fuck me,” Gunnar moaned, “Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me-”_

_“Fuck you how?” Barney grunted, placing a hand gently around his lover’s neck. His cheeks were flushed red with arousal and his eyes were glittering in the low light._

_“_ Fuck me like you want to hurt me _,” Gunnar gasped._

_Barney tightened his fist. Gunnar struggled to breath._

_\--_

He shuddered awake. Gunnar floundered in the blankets for a few panicked moments, sucking in lungful after lungful of air. Beside him, Barney was calling his name, telling him to calm down.

“You were dreaming!” he shouted. “It’s okay! Hey!”

Gunnar lay flat on his back, chest heaving. The dream had been so vivid. His throat was burning. He swallowed hard. “I fell asleep?”

“Yeah,” Barney sat up. “You were exhausted. You passed out and slept for,” he checked the alarm clock on the bedside table, “about two hours.”

Two hours? Gunnar blinked away a bead of sweat that had rolled down his forehead. Barney had sat and waited with him for two hours. Gunnar cracked a smile.

Barney gave him a funny sideways glance. “Are we good?” he asked.

Gunnar nodded. Barney traced his fingers along the inside of Gunnar’s forearm tenderly. He watched the Swede carefully, looking for a negative reaction. It was bold to want to feel the self-inflicted scars that his lover had carved into his own skin. It was another set of injuries that Barney would erase if he could. He moved his hand lower, to the sensitive skin of Gunnar’s thighs. The scars were more pronounced there. They felt like thin cords beneath his fingers. Knowing that the tall blond was watching him too, Barney shifted downwards and spread Gunnar’s thighs. His mouth left a hot, wet trail over the scars. He eased out Gunnar’s cock from his boxers and began stroking it. He leaned forward and licked the shaft slowly, starting at the base and going up. Gunnar moaned at the feeling and let his head fall back on a pillow. Barney took the whole cock in his mouth and began bobbing his head. Gunnar’s hands clenched into fists and he bucked his hips forward, driving himself deeper into Barney’s throat. Barney tongued the head of Gunnar’s dick and sucked hard. After a few minutes he pulled back, wrapping his hand around the shaft and began stroking Gunnar.

“Fuck me,” Gunnar demanded through gritted teeth. Memory of the dream flashed in his head but this was not the same. He was not begging and he wasn’t feeling self-hatred at the moment. He genuinely wanted to be fucked. It wasn’t some messed up form of punishment; he wanted Barney in him, close as possible.

Barney grinned at the tone in Gunnar’s voice and began tugging his shirt off over his head. “Yessir.”

Once undressed, Barney found there was lube in the bedside table’s drawer. He squeezed some into his hand as Gunnar kicked his boxers off and got on his hands and knees. Barney used his fingers to prepare him for his cock. When he finally positioned himself behind Gunnar, he pressed his cock in slowly, causing his lover to groan impatiently. “Hurry,” Gunnar prompted. “Make it hurt.”

 “You sure?”

“Yeah.” There was a twinge of guilt, the dream coming back to him again. Maybe there was something more psychological at play. Either way, Barney did his best. The Swede took it all, even when Barney’s ran his finger nails down his back, digging deeper than he meant to and leaving blood dotted scrapes on his pale skin. Barney used his teeth, leaving bite marks all along Gunnar’s neck and chest. The marks would darken into highly visible bruises. There was no way all of them could be covered later but each bruise screamed _“he’s mine and no one can touch him this way but me, not even himself.”_


End file.
